The Silver Staircase
by aelv13
Summary: After Sherlock's perceived suicide, John finds himself hopeless and utterly alone. One day, he simply cannot take it any more. By the way, imagining this scenario made me cry.


Day in, day out. Agony, pain, hopelessness. John walks up to the door of 221B, leaning heavily against the frame as he tried to fit the key into the lock. His limp has come back, worse than ever, in the past few weeks. He hobbles up the stairs and collapses on the couch, burying his face in the cushions, unable to face the remnants of _him_, still scattered about the flat.

Ms. Hudson pokes her head into the room. She sighs when she sees him lying like this again.

"Tea, dear?" she asks, mostly just for her own sake. John stopped responding a few days ago. Usually, she sighs and leaves. This time, she cautiously walks into the room, and sits daintily on the end of the sofa by John's head.

"He wouldn't have wanted you to live like this," she murmurs, "He would have wanted you to go on living fully."

John absorbs this. He does not respond, gives no indication of having heard Ms. Hudson's sweet and frail voice, quaking with emotion and struggling to keep herself together for John's sake. John hears it all in the voice. Sherlock taught him well.

Sherlock. John buries his face deeper into the folds of the fabric, trying to block everything out. Pretend everything is alright; pretend that in just a minute, Sherlock will walk through that door. It will be like it always was, as it always should have been. John strains his ears, but he hears no footsteps coming closer. No sign that Sherlock is coming home. He's never coming home.

John realizes Ms. Hudson has left the room. He listens once more for the dull thud of Sherlock's boots, the telltale sound of his coat swishing around his shins as he strides into the room, but to no avail. Sighing, he raises himself from the couch, and hurries out of the room. As much as he tries to keep his eyes down, he catches sight of the bullet-ridden smiley face on the wall. He averts his eyes and hurries faster.

Within a few minutes, he enters another building. The stairs are hard for his limp, but he's not about to resign himself to taking the elevator. Sherlock would've taken the stairs, after all. When he opens the door to the roof, cold air blows around him, straight through his jumper and into his bones. John ignores the feeling. The roof is desolate and barren, a mirror image of John's own heart. He approaches the ledge and looks down, careful not to get so close that a sudden gust of wind could knock him over the edge.

He pulls his phone from his pocket. No new messages. He's been waiting, waiting for weeks now, for a message that will never come. It's time to send one of his own, then.

_There are posters, Sherlock, that say "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." I believe, and always will. See you soon. –JW_

He pockets the phone, knowing that it will never be received by anyone, but still having a great feeling of contentment that somehow, somewhere, Sherlock will know what he said, and that Sherlock is waiting for him.

He steps closer to the edge. What was he thinking, when he stood in this very spot only a few weeks earlier. Was he scared? John tries to tell himself that Sherlock was never scared, and uses that to quell his own fear. If Sherlock wasn't scared, he shouldn't be, either. John tries to place himself in Sherlock's head, allowing the detective's calming mind to soothe him. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, but ignores it. Mycroft? Ms. Hudson? They don't matter anymore. All that matters now is Sherlock, John, and the ledge of St. Bart's hospital.

John reaches deeper into Sherlock's mind, resting himself gently into Sherlock's mind palace. Smiling softly, a whisper on his lips, he leans forward, gently as if a breeze lifted him off his feet. He does not feel the plummet, the wind whipping around his hair, pulling him towards the earth. He feels the soft warmth of Sherlock's mind wrapped around his own. He is descending a silver staircase, and he sees Sherlock waiting at the bottom, arms outstretched in welcome. Sherlock seems ethereal, as though he is merely a wisp of smoke, blown away by the slightest breeze. His image shimmers and fades as John descends ever closer. Finally, John reaches the bottom of the staircase, and reaches out for some evidence of Sherlock's presence, but all that greets him is smoke and darkness.

When the police investigate the lifeless body on the sidewalk, they cannot find any personal possessions. Someone has taken his wallet and phone.

A pickpocket walks down the streets of London, disappointed with his find. Only a few bills in the wallet, and an old, scratched phone with someone else's initials on it. He deletes the most recent text message, received just a few minutes prior.

_ I believe in John Watson. –SH_


End file.
